


Dream Seduction

by Cryptid Kel (TheGreatKelthulhu)



Category: Beetlejuice (1988), Beetlejuice - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Dreams, Dreams vs. Reality, F/M, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:09:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25443697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGreatKelthulhu/pseuds/Cryptid%20Kel
Summary: He was a spectre in her memories, and said memories—and the sensations that came with them—fell like glistening raindrops upon her almost-dreaming head, as she began her tender descent into her secret dark desires.
Relationships: Beetlejuice/Lydia Deetz
Comments: 3
Kudos: 24
Collections: Beetlebabes Week





	1. The Sweetest Chill

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Babes Week on Tumblr. The prompt/theme for this was "Dream."
> 
> Had a little inspiration for this chapter from "The Sweetest Chill" by Siouxsie and the Banshees.

Sometimes, she could still hear his voice in her sleep. His gruff, rough, slightly raspy deep voice. A voice that sounded the way cigarettes smelled. A voice that made her breath catch in her throat.

The cadence of that voice was seeped so deep in her memory, in her mind; she’d never be able to get it out, not that she really wanted to. She was...accustomed to it. She... _liked_ it.

And if she concentrated hard enough, she could even still _feel_ him.

As she laid restlessly in her bed this night, she flashed back to all those times with him—seeing him as the snake, meeting him formally in the attic, making the deal with him and their almost-completed wedding.

He was a spectre in her memories, and said memories—and the sensations that came with them—fell like glistening raindrops upon her almost-dreaming mind, as she began her tender descent into her secret dark desires.

He haunted her dreams. When she was asleep, she could revisit every single moment she had had with him. One of her favourites was at the wedding, when she had chickened out and was trying to call it off by sending him back. He had clapped his big hand over her mouth, firmly but gently.  
She’d had no idea at the time just how much she’d long to feel that ghostly hand on her mouth again.

And like so many nights before, she lamented that she couldn’t really feel it now, only the memory of it. Only the chill it had left behind.

But this night... **this** night would be different. **This** night the memories wouldn’t do. Her imagination wouldn’t—couldn’t—satisfy her. 

She hadn’t seem him since nearly a year ago, when their wedding had been interrupted by Barbara and her new sandworm friend, and the so-called “ghost with the most” had been sent back to the afterlife.

She’d spent most of her time around him being scared, or wary of him, and wanting him to leave. Now that he had indeed left and had been gone for a while, though...

She wanted him to come back. Sure, he’d creeped on her, injured her father, scared her whole family, and tried to marry her...but he’d been one of the few people (if you could call him one) who’d shown any concern for her when she had expressed the desire to kill herself. And he didn’t really judge her for it, either. No talking down to her, no freaking out. Just chalked it up to her having her reasons (which, at the time, she did).

He even got rid of that slimeball Maxie Dean and his wife in a hilarious fashion, not that she ever admitted to anyone else that she’d laughed at that.

He’d also kept his word and saved Barbara and Adam from being exorcised. He had done exactly what he said he’d do. Sure, it was in exchange for her living hand in marriage, but she’d known that going in. And she’d agreed to it.

And, maybe...maybe she felt a bit _special_ , being his bride. She’d been emotionally neglected for a while, and though the Maitlands were kind to her...there was just something about being _wanted_ so fiercely by that dead man, that flattered her in a way that she couldn’t describe. He had wanted _her_. He had been prepared to marry _her_. He had dressed _her_ up in an over-the-top Gunne Sax-esque red dress, complete with gloves. He had worn a tux that almost complimented _her_ dress. He had actually made an effort—over the top as it may have been—to make it seem like he was excited to marry _her specifically_. That he was giddy at the prospect of being attached to _her_ like that (brief moment of cold feet aside). 

Taking all of that into consideration, Lydia couldn’t help but start dreaming of him, wondering about him...even _desiring_ him. She shouldn’t, she knew that, but...

But tonight she was going to throw caution to the wind and do something about it. 

She was wary, clad in only a thin black nightshirt and protected only by deep purple sheets, but she was also excited.

Squirming a bit anxiously and closing her eyes in anticipation, she pushed past her initial fear and called him, whispering his name three times.

At first, she felt nothing, and thought it hadn’t worked. But then...

A gust of cold air—certainly not from her closed bedroom window—gently rolled over her, causing her skin to goosebump. 

Hands, with long and gnarled nails, brushed over her, and it felt like heaven and sharp needles. A beautiful combination. 

His ghostly presence rained down upon her small body, and she couldn’t help but shiver.

The chill was _amazing_. 

She kept her eyes closed, so she couldn’t see what he was doing (she didn’t want to _see_ him just yet, maybe another time...), but she could **feel** him just fine. 

And now, she could feel him _everywhere_ , all over her. Like he had become fully non-corporeal and had entered her body.

She was soon drowning in feelings of sublime and supernatural pleasure, her head spinning and her body twitching and shivering as she could feel herself slowly climbing up to a crescendo.

She was so glad she’d decided to call him. She was so relieved that he had come back to her, she almost wanted to cry, and might have if he hadn’t been somehow causing her such immense bodily delight. 

She had been wanting him for a while, and he seemed to have been wanting her for even longer. Her breath caught in her throat as she realized that this wasn’t going to be a one-time thing—it couldn’t be. He wouldn’t be done with her after this, nor would she be done with him. They were now weaving a web of their mutual desire, and would be forever caught up in it together. Fine with her.

She didn’t know why he had picked her. She didn’t know just how or why or even _when_ her thoughts of him had turned into longing. She _shouldn’t_ feel that way about him, and yet she did. It was confusing, but also exciting.

She didn’t know it yet, but this would become one of many nights they’d spend together. One of the many encounters they’d have that would slowly foster actual communication, and eventually understanding.

She **did** know now, however, that she could feel tension coiled within her, and it was about to be released. By now, she was sweating and her breath came in haggard inhalations, and she was utterly enthralled with this dead man and the experience he was giving her.

Then the tension broke, and she gasped as she felt a wave of bliss wash and ripple through her, an enchanting feeling of lightheadedness and satisfaction ebbing and flowing and whirling around within her.

She laid there for a bit, catching her breath, body relaxed and sinking into the mattress. As the feelings of bliss began to subside, she could still feel one beautiful thing—the thrill of what had just happened. Of what she had just done. And with **whom** she had done it.

She whispered his name thrice again, sending him back. But smiling softly as she did so.

She would call him again. Another night. When she needed to feel him again. When she wanted to be greeted with that sweet chill.


	2. Slow Like Honey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fiona Apple's "Slow Like Honey" inspired me to write a second chapter to this.

Lydia poured her second cup of coffee of the morning, and sat at the dining room table, going over last night’s events in her head.

Or trying to, anyway.

It was kind of fuzzy. She had woken up only able to remember things very vaguely—sensations, feelings—but nothing concrete. The harder she tried to imagine what had happened last night with her spectral almost-husband, the fuzzier it got. Reluctantly, she admitted to herself that she had probably been dreaming. She _had_ been very close to falling asleep, after all.

That was disappointing...but on the bright side, what a wonderful dream it had been. The spectre had been like honey in said dream, delicious and slow. The fire that had been flickering within her all these months had finally been allowed to burn, and—dream or no dream—it felt great.

He had felt _real_. He had felt _close_. And, in the off chance it had been real...he had come to her. She must have endeared herself to him all those months ago, or he wouldn’t have been so eager to please her.

If indeed, it _had_ been real. And not a dream. Which it probably was.

Lydia frowned, sighed, and drank her coffee.

* * *

Two days later, she was in the same position.

Sitting at the table, eating breakfast, and wondering what—if anything—had actually happened to her the previous night.

Did she _actually_ call him again? Had he _actually_ come back? It was beginning to irritate her that she was having a damn near impossible time discerning whether he had actually been there with her or not. Along with this irritation, came the fear that she _had_ been dreaming both times, and none of it had been real.

She’d be disappointed if that was the case, and she considered doing everything she could to not have those dreams again—getting taunted by something and someone she couldn’t have was too much to endure—but her aching desire to have him return (even if only in her dreams) overrode that probably more reasonable decision.

The feelings that she’d been left with these past few nights were like a beautiful melody of a siren song, and she couldn’t resist.

Real or not, he was haunting her.

* * *

A week later, it had become a secret that she was keeping.

He had visited her (in some form or another) again. And again. And again.

**If** he really was coming to her, and **if** she wasn’t just dreaming it...he was sure taking his time to win her over. He was moving slowly with her.

And leaving her with bliss during, and heavy moods the mornings after.

She’d actually opened her eyes these past few times, but had seen nothing. No visual proof of him whatsoever.

She was beginning to covet evidence of him truly visiting her. Every time she woke up and tried to remember the previous night, she’d feel fleeting feelings of contentment, then an aching yearning and disappointment the rest of the day. He was invading her thoughts, emotions, her head.

Still, every night she had yielded to him. Or the facsimile of him that her dreaming brain had created.

His presence had been like a scent on the breeze these past few times—she was sure she could feel it at the time, but it was fleeting, intangible, and she had no solid evidence of it.

She was beginning to wonder what was **with** him? If he had _truly_ been visiting her. And if he was...

What was it about her that made him want to drive her crazy?

* * *

His supposed visits were still Lydia’s secret even weeks later, and though she was beginning to get sick of not knowing what was real and what wasn’t, he was keeping her coming back for more.

She laid sprawled out on her bed this afternoon, languishing in frustration and yearning and confusion and anxiety and...

Dreams were deceiving. She knew that. What feels so real in them can turn out to be very fake once awake. But...It _felt_ very real.

She groaned, and rolled over onto her stomach, head hanging off the bed.

She wanted some relief from all of this. To know once and for all whether it was simply her dreaming or not.

Fantasy and reality were simultaneously too far apart for her liking, and yet too close together.

Her dead ex-groom (or she herself) was stretching her sanity like it was taffy. She was on the edge of losing it, and it felt both agonizing and tantalizing. An enraging combination of emotions.

It was almost like he (or some part of her) was standing at the edge, waiting for her to make it over the rest of the way herself and to attain answers.

She wanted satisfaction. She wanted a solid conclusion to their story. But if she couldn’t have that...if he (or, again, some part of her) wouldn’t let her have that...

Then maybe it was best to let him go. Or best for _**him**_ to let _**her**_ go...?

But she didn’t want to. And she knew—if he’d really been visiting her these nights—that he wouldn’t want to either. They were entangled now, and it was too late to back out. Assuming, of course, she hadn’t been imagining it.

Imagination or not, this secret had been hovering over her life for _weeks_ , and it had kept her reaching for clarification on just what **exactly** was happening.

Was he _truly_ there, then gone like yesterday? Was she simply dreaming of him bringing her heavenly-feeling delight? It had always felt so _real_ , his presence always felt so _**strong**_. It had to be real...right?

It _had_ to be him slowly driving her insane, his own twisted way of courting her. It made too much sense. It was **exactly** something he would do.

And dreaming of something she desperately wanted was **exactly** something _she_ would do.

She sighed, then wrangled herself into bed.

Maybe she’d be lucky and sleep would fix this heavy mood. For now.


End file.
